Best Hauling Poems
Written: December 12, 2023
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Twilight swallowed me, striking me speechless
With subtle caress of a wicked breeze
Stirring the surge, I drift inwardly
And wild geese soar home in the sky.
Floating at a low level on a long, rolling skein.
Their banter ruined their afternoon
Friends unified on a familiar trip.
I've seen them ride on the oceans.
Pulling back the waves' white locks.
In the quiet, glassy sea, my skiff barely ripples.
Lavender clouds and double geese.
Random ideas diffuse as waves.
But my ideas act as stars in the sky
Bringing delight with a single chuckle.
Happiness simply cannot be accounted for.
Also, it seems as a wayward child.
Even amid the thrills, sadness arises.
Akin to one drop of rain on quiet waters.
Spread ripples will erase dazzling rays.
With a single echoed plink of its sad note.
Is it worth staying with the wispy Hope scarf?
Then laid across my shoulders?
The light tilts on other days.
That warms the day as a lover's kiss.
And I anchor at home in delightful calm.
On the day after Christmas, they started appearing,
cast out of houses, stripped of their finery,
lying crooked in the gutter, garbage bags flanking.
My brothers and I walked to school
and halfway there, three blocks away,
was a steep ravine called The Hollow.
A place of some dark mystery in summer,
one hundred feet deep and forbidden land
according to most parents, The Hollow
sang its song to all neighborhood kids.
Returning to school after Christmas,
my brothers and I would drag the discarded
Christmas trees along the sidewalk and onto the bridge
that spanned The Hollow, then heave them over the railing,
watching their graceful tumble earthward,
their air brushing final fall.
"Hey, I used to do that too!" Donnie was a lot older,
almost done with high school, and his walk took him
right by our elementary school - he laughed to see us
hauling the trees to that concluding bridge.
He grabbed a large one, bigger than any of us could handle,
and upon the bridge had us help him hold it upright on the railing,
as it stood in life, as it looked down upon Christmas gifts;
we watched it slowly lean into Gravity,
watched the balletic descent into silence.
Donnie kept with us that first month into the new year,
the pile of trees growing in the bottom of The Hollow.
He told us things, we told him things,
we asked him things and he told us more.
My brothers and I still talk about that big tree
on the railing of the bridge over The Hollow.
It hit right on top of the pile of other trees
and bounced off to the side, its own special place.
As January wore on, we didn't find as many trees,
and ultimately it was all done.
Eventually the school year too was done,
and then more years, and school itself was done.
The trees at the bottom of The Hollow rotted away to nothing.
Somewhere in there my mom told me that Donnie
had been shipped off to war, killed within a few weeks.
We had that one magic month.
December 25, 2016
For Anthony Slausen's contest - 'The Day After Christmas'
Bloated; the feeling of you getting filled with the same things of the world
Old from not finding something new to make you feel young
Daily you thrive to make your life of interest to others, but mostly yourself
Yielded by emotions, that has diminished your pride
Other hopes have come about and gone with your procrastination
Floating inside your head, so when your body is caught you have gone
Time always a cheating mistress, but you always felt you could get more out of her
Hauling your depressions, to remind you of different kinds of sadness; masochistic
Evening light is the best, cause you are not fully viewed
Letting go of your childhood, has made you forget enjoyment of silly things
Inner self is slowly crawling more into his inner self which is crawling to nothing
Violent are your fist that you feel vibrate every time in your anger
Intentionally seeking attention, bad not a good whore at it
Null is now your favorite word
Going with out a goal
It has swallowed you whole what ever it is...
Never mind returning bliss
Thinking about all the good times you could have, but you went ahead and missed
How much more self loathing are you going to give?
Even children get over scrapped knees
Having nothing but to agree to self pity
Open your mind and eat the many things that should be searched
Use your will again, instead of a pulse to keep living
Sense your self once more and maybe you love will also
Everything could be something
Ogre lurking inside, must be killed by your own sword
Forgive and the apologies will feel like candy in your mouth
Timidness is not a option
Help yourself do more than just thrive!
Eager are the types of happiness that are waiting
Doubt should not let you sit
Elope your mind and body together
Adjusted to much to be a copy; so unnoticeable
Death comes at the end, not during.
Miles of roads while blowing horns
tiresome bodies their eyes are sore,
Trying to reach a rest stop to avoid
a jackknifed load.
Hauling the necessities to survive in this world,
whether it's Gas, Food or Motor oil.
Driving a semi the juggernaut of the road
maneuvering in all conditions even the blistering cold.
Away from Friends and Families away from their homes
Holidays and private events are void they're all alone.
A hard grip of the wheel avoiding reckless drivers
swerving in to unforseen debris blowing out tires.
A grueling shift comes to an end locking up the Trailer,
Arriving to the sanity of their homes ready to retire.™©
By: Shawn Munoz
(A Christmas Collage)
The sun has set and night is stealing
Softly o'er the silent land,
While snowflakes slowly down are falling,
Shaken from an unseen hand.
To the top of Thorburne Tower
Light from windows streams around;
The glow of twenty thousand tapers
Sparkles on the snowy ground.
High arching o'er the graceful altar,
Wintergreen and laurel sway;
And all about the pews of alder
People kneel and humbly pray.
The rosy cheeks and smiling faces,
Rising at the last amen,
Return to rhythmic rows of places
Raising songs of praise again.
Oh hear those olden carols going
O'er the tower to the skies;
Noel and joyful tidings flowing
From warm hearts and gleaming eyes.
So far above the frosty forest,
Father God and Jesus see
The flick'ring flame of faith fulfilling
What on earth was meant to be.
There below the boundless heavens
Beams the Spirit's blessing full;
Bestowing peace and tidings holy,
Bearing love that makes us whole.
Th' enchanting ev'ning passing onward,
Ev'ry street once empty filled;
Then all-enfolding light descending,
Endless eager voices stilled.
To those who trolled triunal praises,
Angels lit the topaz night;
Attuning to the trilling trumpets,
Sounding in triumphal might.
The harps and high harmonic voices
Hold a hope no man could give,
Enmeshing in enchanting fashion,
Showing how archangels live.
E'en later yet they light their lanterns,
Laugh around the firelight's heat;
The children look around and listen,
Laps all full of things to eat.
Even now the endless snowflakes
Eloquently, gently fall;
Adding to the festive feeling
Held alike by great and small.
The youngsters holding hands are happy,
Dancing 'neath the holly wreath,
While horses hauling sleighs and cutters
Jingle homeward on the heath.
The embers glow in evenings echo,
Shedding reddish light afar;
Expectant eyes reflect its sparkle,
Shining like the morning star.
They sing of Mary, blessed mother,
Meek and willing, pure and mild;
They magnify the great Messiah
Born as Mary's holy child.
[Look for the acrostic in the alliteration. There is one letter for each verse.]
By Isaiah Zerbst, November 16, 2013
I have dreamed so many dreams of life in Texas
Of cowboys and of the history I'd find there
So many hours I have been driving
but all I see are oil wells everywhere .
Long dusty roads and lorries hauling
Miles and miles of heavy industry
but just as I felt my spirit falling
A vision of loveliness appeared to me .
Calling to fill my car with fuel
Perhaps a diet coke to quench my thirst
Sat behind the counter on a stool
An angel giggled as I cursed .
She was so pleased that I was from England
She said my accent sounded like a song
She listened intently to my story
Then bluntly told me where I'd been going wrong .
There's a nice hotel in town if you are staying
You can pick me up at seven by the door
You're a nice guy but I hope you don't mind me saying
No guy ever needed my help more .
I drove her to that honky tonk at seven
Those jeans so tight I swear they're made of paint
With every word she spoke I felt I was in heaven
Those green eyes would make the toughest cowboy faint.
We danced then I sang her a ballad
My rendition of always on my mind
We kissed and we talked for hour on hour
Never have I met anyone so kind .
I walked her safely to her front door
A ranch style house on a leafy avenue
She gave the kind of kiss that shook me to my core
The strangest most beautiful woman I ever knew .
In the days that followed I found Texas
It was everything I ever thought it could be
and all the while my wonderful honky tonk angel
Was right there sharing every sweet moment with me .
I drive the night because of open road.
My retreads are sounding strong.
Hauling cars up from New Orleans
Where I'm not sure that I belonged.
Traded whiskey for a woman
At a bar in Abilene.
Then the pedal down up to Portland town
Helped along by methadrine.
There’s a lady there in Stumptown
She dances on the pole
Makes her pay in dollar bills
She's never ever home
Daylight fades and night descends
Men come, await their fate.
She sucks them dry and infects their soul,
Relights her lamp and waits…
She goes to church on Sunday.
Always comes in late.
She says a prayer, she sheds a tear,
puts food stamps in the plate.
Dropped my load down at the docks
there's a motel by the sea.
Homebase for my Peterbilt
That's parked out by the tree
Called her up, the kids are home.
I hear them laughining on the phone.
Grandma says she"s not around,
But she'll tell her I'm in town.
“Yea. tell her I'm in town again
And kiss the kids for me,
Gotta leave on Tuesday”.
Hung up and fell asleep.
The phone rang in the morning.
The call was short and sweet.
She had some things she had to do,
Didn’t think that we could meet.
Fueling up, the fog horns moan.
Red pills to feed the beast.
A woman left back in the fog.
A white line headed east.
Look at my life
Some say I've sinned.
My dreams were blown away
By the cruel ...
Highway Wind.
I saw an old wagon wheel in the antique store the other day.
What type of vehicle it must have conveyed, I couldn't really say,
But I let my imagination roam as I studied the old wheel,
And pondered its odyssey and what secrets it might reveal.
Its iron tire was pitted and rusted due to age.
The wooden spokes were intact but their age was hard to gauge.
Its diameter was about five feet and its tread six inches wide.
Ah, if it could only speak to me, its mysteries to confide!
Could it have carried a pioneer family in a Conestoga wagon west,
With the anticipation of a new beginning in their relentless quest!
It with other wagon wheels rutted well-worn trails along the way,
And traces of those treacherous routes are seen to this very day!
Could it have graced an army lorry drawn by cantankerous mules,
Driven by a pugnacious trooper to deliver hay, grub and tools?
The wear and tear was evident due to many military campaigns,
Crossing perilous rivers, mountain heights and endless arid plains.
Or could it have borne a farmer's wagon as he plied his trade,
Hauling crops of wheat, corn and oats once the harvest was made?
Oh, the many miles it endured through the mud, dust and snow!
I left the store still musing about its odyssey of so very long ago.
Robert L. Hinshaw, CMSgt, USAF, Retired
Life was so carefree for me as a child, way back when
I was just a little girl who loved to dream and pretend
that I would grow up to be a doctor's nurse and mend
those who were hurt and sick. Their needs I would tend.
Way back then when I was ten, my world was small.
Dad was the man in my life. In my eyes he stood tall.
Working on our farm didn't seem like work at all
and when dinner was ready, we'd hear Mom's call.
My siblings and I had pets, but Bandi was my favorite one.
He'd wag his tail and run with me when my work was done.
He was a hunter and cocked his ears when Dad got the gun.
Way back then when I was ten, my life was filled with fun.
We didn't have a car, but on a farm we needed a truck.
When I honked the horn it made the silly chickens cluck.
It came in handy hauling our vegetables to earn a buck.
We sat in the flatbed when Dad said, "Corn to shuck."
I was a bit of a tom boy, never wanted to play with a doll.
My sister asked Santa for Barbie; my brother- a basketball.
All I wanted was a horse, but Mom was afraid I'd take a fall.
I heard a whinny in the morn; the tom boy began to bawl.
What few worries I had at ten, when life was so simplistic.
Too old to need a babysitter; too young to think of lipstick.
I chased lightning bugs at night, taught Bandi his new trick.
Those small parts of growing up are good memories that stick.
:.............................................................................:
January 24th, 2016 Way Back When I Was Ten Contest
Sponsored by Kelly Deschler
Falling forever through time, lonely hearts cascading…
Calling echoes of ringing chime, vibes of love fading…
Crawling tears facing crime, of dark streets invading…
Exhaling breaths chasing climb, vertical voices escaping…
Appalling words making rhyme, of thoughts are degrading...
Hauling hearts wasted prime, amidst many loves parading.
…this verse can be read backward…
Echoes Heartless
Cascading hearts lonely, time through forever falling...
Fading love of vibes chime, ringing of echoes calling...
Invading streets dark of crime, facing tears crawling...
Escaping voices vertical climb, chasing breaths exhaling...
Degrading are thoughts of rhyme, making words appalling...
Parading loves many, amidst prime wasted hearts hauling.
June.27.2020
Triple Rhyme
Sponsored by: Beth Evans
Placed 1'st...Thank You
I am the reminiscence of you, since you were once me –
stirred among the strings of sense.
I am the reminiscence of everything you love,
since the vivacity of things you praise most.
I remind you of dark of the sky enlivened by stars, blue,
Or grey miasmas scurrying towards the horizon.
Or I remind you of undaunted tide of time clenching fist against you,
Or perhaps, I remind you of the marionettes of dead
Danced by twisted delusions.
Perhaps I am horror to you, or joy
Of trivial surprises which you long for with avidity,
But cannot quench your insatiable thirst.
Perhaps I am your reminiscence, really,
Of stardust slowly fading somewhere in your past sojourns.
Yet I could have been me apart from your reminiscence,
Instead of an endless strive of hauling eyes above the sea of us,
As I know, the corpse of poets’ floats for a show
While the living ones are dragged down to be trampled.
A mackerel sky fillets the village
then hides it in a breezeless blear.
Heads poke out of net drapes
sniff and fish behind trawling curtains.
Shopkeepers brace for
wet dog splatter and spray
for slopping boots and salty puddles.
On the sightless sea
far beyond the shore and shingle,
lost fog horns are lowing deep
like colicky cattle.
Later, misty reeks will be scoured
from groggy docks.
Hauling hands will rope together
tide-tossed tubs,
then tired feet trudge to taprooms
where the brackish parts
of codgers and young alike
can be oiled and quenched.
whispers through the wall,
medium between woman and girl;
in their breath, it twists like Winter,
ballerina frost out in open air
hauling wall; her back steadfast.
who can say why an angel falls?
now she welcomes Winter
in feathered rags; a doll's shape,
X- X's for eyes that show the without-soul;
still cuddling lips;
inside's new skin's wrapped parts
out cold in your arms
A tugboat named Mary
Was towing a barge.
The tugger was little;
The tuggee was large.
They glided on past
As the sun hit the river,
With engines a’chugging,
A load to deliver.
I marveled at Mary,
So cool and in charge,
Using all of her might
Just for hauling that barge.
It doesn’t much matter,
I’m sure you’ll agree,
If the strength and the stamina
Stem from a “she.”
Proud Mary is out there
To prove without fail
That for fortitude, one
Doesn’t have to be male!
fifty years
this house stood against
the tide of generations
leaving in its wake
lizards and roaches
still weaker
we wield hammers
and peer at each other
through glass windows
the masks went on
hauling the debris of years
to the curb
we came here to rebuild
we said, as the stove
hung its head and the fridge
slipped quietly out the door
teal paint chips
snowed in the kitchen
but couldn't touch us
in three hours
the sun lit up
soft brown bones
we drove home
as if home was
external, separate
from our work
and we were so
blissfully intact
the walls had to come
down first, he told us